


Stand, Climb, Fall

by calavarna



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dead Kennedy Universe, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calavarna/pseuds/calavarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand, Climb, Fall

The first time is an accident. At least that's what he tells himself afterwards, when he is standing on the quarterdeck and swaying with the gentle waves lapping at the ship's hull. The middle watch is typically a lonely experience, a chore that must be endured week after week, year after year, until the lofty height of captain is placed within reach and seized with both hands. For all he knows, that may never happen, especially now. It can't be classed as his fault, other than that his failure to extricate himself from the situation is as damning as being the instigator. He understands the life he has chosen, the Articles that bind him and the misguided tenets of society that say nothing of emotion and speak only of actions. He kissed another man, accidentally – he can still feel the soft brush of lips against his, the hand wrapped around his arm to steady his sudden failure of balance – but not unwillingly. By rights, he should hang.

The second time takes him by surprise. Not the kiss itself (although he does not deny that the revelation that he is desired comes as a shock) but the situation in its entirety. There are few things on God's earth that have the ability to disarm him completely, and he had never expected to rediscover one of them in a prison on the Spanish coast. It is almost laughable in its absurdity, and frequently concerning in its cruelty. Only the promise of parole keeps his mind and body sharp and only the knowledge that he has something – someone – to return to can suppress the violent, hateful thought that plague him and threaten his sanity. As a consequence, he is quite pleased (more than, and he would shout it from the rooftops if he knew how to express feelings of happiness) when he curls up in a bunk and finds a warm mouth seeking his with an enthusiasm to rival his own.

The third time is mired in guilt. There is nothing he can do, and certainly nothing he can say that will earn him forgiveness for his actions. That is why he does nothing, choosing to allow his pain and misery to build and coalesce into a physical entity that answers to his name and functions on the smallest amounts of food and sleep. In hindsight, he decides that the bags under his eyes and the hollow stares that were constantly present on his tired face were the catalyst for resolution. In the moment, though, all he knows is that the thin partition of his sleeping cabin is pressing against his back and an unyielding body is flush against his chest. All he can hear are the whispered demands that he let go of his guilt and the strangled "sorry" that escapes his lips before he falls prey to yearning and passes too far down the path of desire to think or speak .

The fourth time is almost predictable. He drinks Portsmouth dry and chooses not to dwell on the knowledge that a single ale has the ability to render his inhibitions inert and obliterate the line between recklessness and prudence. He stumbles up the stairs, one hand clinging to a blue coat-sleeve to save his companion from falling and the other searching for the key to their door. He can't quite remember where their room is, or even if they are in the right inn, but the key fits the lock on the first door he sees and they tumble through, heedless of societal norms that dictate that they should ensure that they are where they are supposed to be. Only, the customs of the time should preclude them from even thinking about the activities in which they are about to indulge but the inn is mostly empty and the walls thicker than most. For the first time in his life, he can't feel the constricting shackles of rules and regulations restraining him. He offers kisses freely. He isn't certain, but he thinks that burgeoning warmth permeating his body is a strange sort of happiness.

The fifth time is to say goodbye. He doesn't remember leaning down, can't recall what phantom thought seized his common sense and bade him cast aside threats of the hangman's noose or dishonour to his name. His world contracts to feature only the man in the bed before him, the man who is his confidante, the man he loves. He can feel the sickening rattle of shuddering breaths torn from a tattered chest, and knows that the warmth that radiates out and gives a false impression of good health is but a final flush of life as the seconds lengthen between each gasp for air until the clock keeps ticking without accompanying breaths. He presses his lips to a fevered forehead, and then lower, seeking out dry, cracked lips that barely move upon contact but offer no resistance. The kiss lasts for both a split second and all eternity, is familiar but wholly new, a startling moment that offers creation but can't conquer the destruction. It is his last kiss.


End file.
